I wouldn’t be surprised if my father has all the staff remove every missive marewing from our stable yard, just to spite me. He’s that much of a prick.
If I ever show even the smallest hint of liking something or become defensive of something, he tears it apart as punishment or uses it against me. So because of that, I try not to show him that I like much of anything. Which means I just sort of…exist. Other than my mother and brother, there’s nothing in my life that I like, because I can’t afford to.
This was a stupid slip on my part. I’ve been coming here too often.
One of the marewings jumps down, her four wings fluffing out in tandem as she prods her horse-like snout against the little hatchlings before I feel her nudge the back of my arm, hoping for a scratch.
I don’t move.
My father’s black eyes flick down. He’s quiet for a moment, and I grow tense as I wait for him to speak. “They will always have an affinity to you.”
I frown, not understanding.
He walks forward, his polished boots scraping over the floor. Our missive coop is already a small building, but with him in it, the wooden walls feel like they’re closing in. He stops in front of me, and I can see the other birds pop their heads out of their teardrop-shaped nests to get a look at him, a few making soft chuffs.
If they knew his true nature, they’d fly right out of this coop and never return.
Unable to stop myself, I flinch when he reaches out his hand right next to me. He notices, of course, but says nothing. Instead, I watch as he strokes a finger over the marewing’s neck. She lets out a soft snickering noise, fluffing up her iridescent blue plumage.
“Winged creatures will feel a kinship toward you,” he says as he continues to pet her. “They will sense innately thatyou are their authority. They will want to defer to you. Strive to please you.”
I say nothing, but I wonder if he’s mixing up the birds with how he wants me to behave with him. My nerves tighten, like string being wrapped around splintering wood. The thin strand pulls tighter, continuing to coil, just waiting for the snap.
He finally stops stroking the bird, and she trills before turning around to the cheeping hatchlings and settling herself over their little gray bodies to warm them. My father turns to me, and I’m forced to look him in the eyes. His are so dark it’s like his character has bled through.
“Do you know why?”
“No, sir.”
He glances down at the spikes that are poking out of my arms, and I feel myself twitch. He’s always forcing me to bring them in and out, over and over again. He makes me do it while I’m training with my magic, to make sure they don’t erupt uncontrollably.
I can’t even count the number of times he’s punished me for slipping and letting them rip free during a particularly difficult training session. But even if I do manage to keep them under, then he forces me to bring them out after I’ve already worked myself to exhaustion. If I can’t, I get punished anyway.
I can’t win. Not with him.
“Winged creatures will feel a kinship because of what you are. Of whatweare. This,” he says, moving his finger to press against the side of my spike, “is a symbol of that. We are Culls. But more than that, we are the dragon-wielders of old.”
His eyes sweep up to glance at the light gray scales that stain my cheeks. He reaches up and tugs away the red cloth that he always wears tucked into his collar, revealing the tiny grouping of scales that litter his collarbone. They’re darkerthan mine, but smaller, and the cluster is only about as long as his finger. I wonder if that’s why he hides it. Because they aren’t big or bold enough to boast.
In his eyes, if something isn’t good enough to boast, it isn’t good enough to have.
Which is how he treats my little brother. Ryatt’s only nine years old, but because he hasn’t manifested magic at a ridiculously young age like I did, our father either snubs him or sneers at him.
Every time I see Ryatt hold back tears, it makes me want to kill my father. But my little brother still believes in good. Heisgood. No matter how many times Father pushes him aside.
I know Ryatt despairs because of it, but I still secretly pray to the goddesses that it doesn’t change. Because it’s better for him to be ignored. It’s safer. I don’t want Father to do to Ryatt what he’s done to me.
My father presses a thumb to my scales. “This is power, boy,” he says before dropping his hand. “Every bird knows what lives in your blood. They can sense the dragon in you.”
I don’t dare roll my eyes. He’s been obsessed with my scales and spikes since they first erupted. But just like his own pitiful cluster, nothing’s ever come from it. That magic died a long time ago.
As if he’s followed my train of thought, his expression darkens with anger, and I brace myself.
“And yet…” he goes on, his voice dropping down an octave. “After five generations of Cull blood, someone in our line finally manifests both scales and spikes, but you still cannot call forth a dragon.”
He flicks at one of the spikes on my spine, making me flinch. I hate outwardly reacting, but my heart is pounding so hard that I can’t help it.
“The Cull line has given you dragon-blessed blood,” he seethes. “You could be king of the skies, where all winged creatures would bow to you, and yet you can’t even manifest an incorporeal splintered form!”
